


100 Years of Pining

by A3Notes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: ANZAC Day, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, World War I, World War II, honestly, i also wrote this instead of my essay, i wrote this after sniffing vivids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 06:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17575727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A3Notes/pseuds/A3Notes
Summary: Using only insults, describe a person you adore.





	1. Flanders Field

**Author's Note:**

> prompt:  
> Using nothing but insults, describe a person you adore.
> 
> instead of doing my sos i'm going to write an oznz fanfic even though i'm not even in the hetalia fandom anymore lol xd yay im going to hell,,,, also some parts aren't historically accurate? I Tried

pt. 1

 

There's someone he really, really hated. (Well, that was a lie, he really liked this person.)

Curly hair shaped into ram horns, those bright green eyes and slightly tanned skin, the short stature--yeah, Australia really hated him. The asshole that claimed his products, the one that looked way, way too innocent--how the hell were they around the same age?--the dick that pretended he didn't exist. 

God. 

That terrible accent of his didn't fit his appearance, either. No, it wasn't fair. Not in the slightest.

New Zealand needed to fuck off.

(Actually, no, he wanted to be around him more.)

The one that really brought them together was England, calling them to join him in the war. Australia knew that if he went, he'd get to see New Zealand again. It had been quite a while since they last saw each other (actually, not long at all--they had set up a trading system recently, and often travelled to and fro each country), and Australia was not curious to see how much New Zealand had grown. 

(Not that he hadn’t averted his eyes from him every time they met, no.)

\---

They met in Egypt. New Zealand had grown slightly taller; no, much, much, taller. Disgustingly so. He wouldn't be able to rest his arm on his head like an arm rest anymore. Ah, that caramel hair was shiny. Too bad it was covered in mud most of the time, under a green army cap--tarnished in blotchy dirt. (How long had it been since Australia’s looked at him properly?)

Maybe he stared at him for a bit too long, as Egypt nudged him from the side, and he nearly toppled over.

"The hell are you doing?" It was but a whisper into his ear, in an angry tone. "You haven't finished cleaning your boots, even though it should've been done half an hour ago."

Australia just nodded in a daze.

\---

Sitting around a campfire in the middle of the night was probably not the most ideal thing to do, especially with the humidity of the place. He stared upwards, at the sky, filled with stars--with constellations. Even though the world changed around him, the sky didn’t. 

Thinking mindlessly, he didn’t notice the presence that sat in front of him, on the other side of the campfire. The fire flickered, a cackling noise being made. 

They didn’t seem to want to exchange any words, even as Australia stopped looking upwards and noticed that terrible waste of space in front of him. He looked content with himself, just staring at the fire in a mild daze, sipping from a flask filled with water.

Australia broke the silence.

“Hey, Zea, when do you think the war will end?”

\---

The land around him was bloody. In fact, the air reeked of rotting iron and the stench of the many, many corpses. They had grasped victory for such a long amount of time; a miniscule 48 hours. Chunuk Bair, a hill, the one they were told to capture. Troops purely made out of his and New Zealand’s army--a party called the ANZAC. 

Australia compared New Zealand to his current situation; grim, ugly, and hopeless. But even with the cloudy, blood-stained skies, the sun came up; a glimmer of light.

Holes--technically, the burrows he had slept in for the past few weeks--littered the grounds of the battlefield. As he walked cautiously around them, he wondered why his country was fighting. He wondered why New Zealand was fighting. It was… well, Australia wasn’t very happy. The one he hated (liked) so much, valiantly fighting--no, no, nope. It didn’t suit him at all. That look of blood lust as he gunned down enemy after enemy. Those eyes that filled with fear when a land mine had gone off. Everything felt so wrong.

Maybe if Australia closed his eyes, it would all go away.

As if.

New Zealand wasn’t his enemy. His dumb hair and stupid face didn’t threaten him in anyway. Such idiotic eyes filled with admiration couldn’t hold malice--that kind of thing was impossible. 

He bit his lip, watching rats and flies swarm to the many corpses.

So why, Australia wondered, so why did New Zealand set off an instinct in him that told him to run? 

After walking for so long (Australia didn’t even realise he had walked so far), he found a body that wasn’t dead alongside the others. It was breathing, barely, yet--they were still alive. 

Well, New Zealand wasn’t really human, so of course he was still alive.

Emerald eyes looked up at him, boring into him with a rush of unfamiliar feelings. They dared to continue staring, as another grenade was thrown and another trigger was pulled. 

“Hey, Aus, pick me up. My legs hurt.” The voice was quiet, and he had started to sit up. Expectantly, he threw out his arms, waiting for Australia to move. 

Complying, Australia picked him up, piggy backing him back to the nearest base. He didn’t say anything to New Zealand the walk back, noticing he had fallen asleep. The guy on his back was lighter than he expected--like he hadn’t been eating well for the past few days. In fact, he also sounded a bit sick--Australia thought back to when he spoke. 

Oh, and those arms that had wrapped around his neck were somewhat comforting, even if it felt like he was being choked.

Ah, disgusting.

\---

Soon enough, England told them to retreat. It took a month or so for their troops to evacuate. The new year was spent solemnly, waiting for the last of the troops to return. Some didn’t make it back, and New Zealand’s stupid eyes only became duller. 

Australia handed New Zealand a flower, while they were waiting for the last division. A red flower with a black centre; a flower used to create a numbing substance that Australia knew would make everything easier.

“Here,” He passed the flower to dumb ram-horns. “It’s... a poppy.”

Those terrible lips formed into a smile for the first time in a long time.

\---

Belgium, in a cemetery. It had been a few months since the Gallipoli campaign. Flanders Field, a sea of poppies. Canada was writing a poem about it, but Australia couldn’t care less. New Zealand was smiling so much at the flowers, the literal sea of poppies. Of opium. And watching those dull eyes light up and those disgusting lips curved upwards was terribly worth it. 

Again and again, a pain throbbed in Australia’s chest. He was going to die like this, he thought, watching idiot green-eyes-pretty-smile run through the sea of poppies. 

All that occupied his mind was him, New Zealand.

The gray, boring sky--it only made New Zealand seem much, much more disgustingly bright. He couldn’t avert his eyes no matter how much he wanted to. Australia tried (and failed), again and again. 

Badges adorned the both of them, colourful, colourful badges. But the more Australia stared at New Zealand, the more he hated them. They were just a reminder of the war, the war that was still going on. He grimaced at the blood stains, the mud, everything that dirtied the disgusting idiot running through the field of poppies.

Perhaps he’d be able to tell him one day. 

\---

It’s over. The war had ended. They could return home, finally. 

New badges adorned his outfit, adding onto the plethora of colours. Australia walked onto the ship, the same one that idiot was boarding. This would likely be the last time they’d see each other for a while. He wouldn’t miss it. (He would very much miss it.)

As he sat next to the smaller country, New Zealand’s head turned to look up at him. 

“Oh.”

He looked and sounded deathly tired, like he hadn’t slept for the past week. 

“Hi, Zea.” 

Maybe he could’ve made a better response, but he couldn’t stand looking any longer at his face. Now that Australia was looking close--oh, oh--New Zealand had freckles. 

He turned away from him, staring at the sea instead.

\---

On the way back home, Australia thought about it; about the war, about the country next to him, about England. Even as it grew dark and New Zealand had just about nodded off sitting upright, Australia continued to ponder. More and more he began to question his own country, himself, and his so-called father--the one that ruthlessly sent off thousands of his and Zea’s men to their deaths. 

The moon reflected against the sea’s translucent surface, brightly grinning at him.

Ah, the moon was pretty.

Weight was then pushed onto his side, which he nearly instinctively pushed away. Instead, Australia looked this time, to notice New Zealand had begun to lean on him. Oh God. Too close. Too close. Way, way, way too close.

Nasty.

(That wasn’t how he really felt, however. He liked the warmth and the way a hand wrapped around his arm. It was nice. Although he’d never admit that.)


	2. Crete

pt. 2

It had been 19 years since he last saw New Zealand. A real good 19 years. Definitely.  
(That was a lie. A big, fat lie. The last 19 years he’s been trying to recover from the horrors of war--of what had happened in his country. He knew New Zealand was in a similar predicament, being backed up by the other Allied Forces. But still. He was kind of concerned. Ah, wait, no he wasn’t--that is, if he wanted to lie again.)

And then, Germany decided to bring about another war--one far worse than the previous one. 

England called them again. Soon, they’d meet again. How terrible.

But before that--he had signed up for a project with America. The Lend-Lease; a support project to overthrow the Axis Powers by distributing resources. Australia went over his numbers, his farms, and began packing various resources into cargo-boxes. 

Various boats had arrived at the docks, and he was preparing to send the cargo off--but then he saw New Zealand hop off one of the boats, taking his time walking from the dock to him. They made eye contact--and Australia didn’t dare move. 

Those putrid green eyes bore into him while an ugly smile formed on his lips.

“Shouldn’t you, um, maybe… prepare your food? Before sending it over?” 

That smile was innocent. That voice was innocent. Hell, even those eyes were innocent. Those words were anything but.

“I…” Australia took a deep breath and smiled back. He opened his mouth, completely changing his sentence.

“You’re a cunt, did you know that?”

\---

New Zealand ended up in the fields of a vegetable farm with Australia, harvesting vegetables. Yeah, who knew.

“So, why are you here, anyway?” Australia asked absentmindedly, stuffing the greens into yet another packet. “Hadn’t America sent any of his troops to your place?”

The nonexistent country next to him thought for a moment. “None of his troops were stationed at my place, and a messenger pigeon just told me to drop my goods off here. I’ll be staying here for a few days to load off my cargo and make sure they go off safely as well. I… I hope you don’t mind.”

He sounded somewhat nervous, trailing off near the end.

“Ah, sure, whatever.” No. Please go back home. (Yes. Please stay here longer, if only just a little.)

Oh _fuck._

Australia made the mistake of turning to look at his reaction--those disgusting eyes had lit up and a grin spread across his face like wildfire. This was a mistake. Abort, abort, _aboooooort._

He turned back to the harvesting before his own face exploded into colour.

“Ah, thanks Aus!”

Fuck off.

(Please say that again.)

Australia simply let out a delayed grunt.

\---

They were now in a kitchen. What the hell was that transition? From being in a farm then suddenly a kitchen--they were washing some of the things they were to send. New Zealand was saying something about refrigerated transport that he was using to send his cargo. And he was explaining how it worked as they brought the stock to the cargo and separated the ones that needed to be frozen.

Then suddenly, they were back at the kitchen. Some stock was left over, but not enough to send overseas with the rest of the cargo.

“I’m hungry,” Australia mumbles, and begins to take out some bread and some spreadables. “What about you?” No, wait, why did he say that? He didn’t care about New Zealand’s well being, right? (Of course he cared. He was too stubborn to admit it.)

“Ah… Y-Yeah, I’m… hungry.”

Why was his response so delayed? Why was it so quiet? 

Not that he cared, of course. (Extremely wrong. Australia cared, perhaps, a bit too much.)

“So, um… What do you want for dinner?” He decided to say, not looking at the figure that had slowly trudged to stand next to him. “Sorry. I don’t really have much food…”

In all honesty, he just hadn’t checked what he had in stock. Maybe there was a bit more than what he expected, maybe there was less. These past few years he had restocked his pantry, after the war. 

Ah, how did New Zealand feel about the war?  
And why did he care?

Australia looked through the pantry for a proper meal instead of toast and marmite. He found a few potatoes and sausages, alongside with some meat. 

No, really, why did he care?

He held up the items. 

“We could make roast, or something…” The sun had begun to set. His voice died at the end. What the hell?

New Zealand stared at him with hazy, filtered eyes. The swamp green encompassed so many emotions it all added up to nothing--at least, not until he blinked at the colours cleared again to the disgusting, usual _hazel._

“... Ah.” 

He sounded like he had just woken up.

\---

 

Greece--invaded completely and utterly by the Italians, by the Germans. It was a mess, an ugly, ugly, sight. Just the smell of the air and tenseness in the atmosphere solidified everything--the realness of the situation.This was reminded him of the Gallipoli campaign. No, actually--this was just like that flop of a campaign.

Land mines were going off. Boom, bang, boom. On and on the sound resounded and soon there would be nothing left of this earth. Nothing left of them. Nothing left of anyone. 

Ah, that’s too bad. Australia wanted to see New Zealand again. 

He remembers setting up their HQ, using the name “ANZAC” for their troops once again. They were here to protect Greece from the Fascist Italy and Nazi German invasion. They were here to defend their allies. They were here to help. They were here. They were.

_They._

And it crumbled. Everything crumbled to fucking pieces. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He repeats it like a mantra, over and over. As he weaves through the battlefield, through the tunnels, through the rubble that was once a building--blown to bits, bits, bits. 

He wonders and wonders where he’s going, where he is. Everything is a mess. The sounds just keep resonating around the area, against the walls, against the ground, against him. Ah, that’s right--back to their “HQ,” if it was even still standing. Where was it again? Where was it? Forward? Left? Right?

But Australia’s feet know exactly where it is, as they kept walking, on, on, on. Explosions--the sound throbbed in his ears as they went off--gunshots--the sound sent a slash to his chest--and, and, that voice.

That disgusting, that ugly, that… voice.

(It was a nice sound. It was like a melody. It was pretty. Who was he kidding?)

Bright eyes--were they bright?--met with his. The dullness returned in them. Grey, murky, murky, grey mixed in with the emeralds of his pupils. Australia was staring. Definitely. He told himself it was because he was admiring how ugly they were. Normal eyes weren’t that ugly, he reasoned. They weren’t clouded or murky or shifted colours whenever they felt like it. 

(Those eyes were terribly pretty.)

“... going to Crete,” New Zealand was speaking. He was speaking while those dull eyes bore into Australia. He was saying something. Australia should pay attention.

“We’re evacuating to Crete,” New Zealand repeated, and it finally reached his ears. 

“Ah,” He fumbled for a reply. “Alright.”

Despite the place and time and atmosphere, New Zealand spoke again, this time looking anywhere but Australia’s face.

“I think this needs to end.” It came out as a whisper, barely audible.

“The war?” Australia questioned, confused by the sudden change in tone.

New Zealand shook his head. 

“No. Well, that too, but... This... thing. The thing we have,” He bit his lip. “The… ANZACs.” 

Oh. Oh? Oh. Thank fuck.

(More like oh fuck.)

“Yeah? Why?” Australia pressed, feeling slight nausea rise in his chest. (Why do they have to end?)

Those eyes flickered, looking between the collar of his shirt to the ground. The result was an anxious stutter. 

“I-I… I don’t think it’s a g-good idea to keep using t-the n… name. Especially with the, uh, A-Axis…” More shuffling. He was twitching. And fumbling, twiddling his thumbs. “With the Axis… around.”

He stared. And stared. What New Zealand said had barely processed into his mind. And it didn’t make sense at all.

Noticing this, New Zealand gulped and began to speak again.

“W-We’ve made a n-name for our… ourselves, so… We’re kind of… infamous. It might be a, uhm, bad idea to be… known. Known to still operate. I, I don’t know.”

He stared even more, boring holes into New Zealand’s face. Those ugly eyes that had averted his own, those disgusting lips that curved and thinned, and that imperfect skin speckled in colour. Staring. He was staring too much.

“... Okay.”

(Although he had said that, he wondered what the gut-wrenching pain was. The feeling that made him want to cry. Or maybe the need to grab onto New Zealand and never want to let go.)

\---

Crete was another disaster of its own. Vigilantly, they tried their best to defend those that were helping them hide. Those that were helping them. The Cretans, who had lived here for so long. They weren’t just going to be forced out and relocated by the Axis. So they fought, too. They protested and protested and here they were, completely defeated.

It began with the ships in the sky. The aircrafts that littered the gray sky, the aircrafts that rained paratroops. Gliders of all kinds filled the skies, and he had prepared for the worse. Bombs came from the sky, loud explosions--ah, they reminded him of the previous war, the previous campaign. The paratroops were attacked by the local Cretans--armed with shotguns, axes, and spades. For this, they’d suffer later; although that was unknown to them, the Cretans. 

On the first day out of the twelve, it wasn’t so bad. Australia was sure they’d be able to win; to successfully defend like they originally planned to. It’d be fine; he said to himself. It’d be fine.

But it wasn’t fine at all.

New Zealand decided to evacuate from an important spot, and now the Germans decided to use that spot to their advantage. Maleme. He didn’t know at the time that it was such an important place. The second day turned it around. Australia with New Zealand planned a counter attack, something, anything, to get Germany to fuck off. 

The next day, the third day, the day of the counter attack. It failed. It failed. He had fucked up. It was his fault. 

Just like that, they were forced to withdraw.

Each day got progressively worse. They were being pushed, pushed, pushed back. This was the fifth day. Their supplies were thinning. It was all going to shit.

The Germans just kept pushing forward. What day was it? Oh, right. The sixth day. New Zealand was stubborn, like the bastard he was. He made a counter attack--this time it was successful, but… They didn’t have enough resources to hold the village. So they withdrew. How many times have they done that? Running away due to circumstance, not exactly retreating or surrendering or evacuating. It was strange. It made Australia wonder. It made the situation seem more grim that it should be. 

Australia thought the previous days were bad. Ha. What a joke. When New Zealand decided to retreat for real, to evacuate--the mess it created was worse than the fighting itself. They got lost, and this is where a bunch of their troops got taken prisoner. The nice town of Canea--once a bubbly place full of life--had become a dust heap of fire, burning, burning, burning. There were no reinforcements. No supplies. Exhausted troops. Constant enemy air attacks. 

Crete was already lost.

And now they had begun evacuating. New Zealand had asked Egypt for a place to stay, and Egypt reluctantly agreed. It was a long walk. But he’d do it. This battle was lost. The battle for Crete was over. Australia had accepted the defeat. 

They had to pass through mountains. White mountains. The lack of water and food caused troops to pass out on the side of the road. Many took shelter under trees and rocks in surrounding hills. But they got there. They eventually did. The end of the 24 km road. 

Reaching the ships, the navy--Australia and New Zealand ushered their troops to Egypt. The boats came with much needed rations. It was stressful, to say the least--but it was worth it. 

The next few days followed with waiting for the evacuation and soldiers bickering about who gets to leave first. In the end, quite a few troops were left behind to be inevitably captured by the Germans. Those who left, New Zealand said, were leaving with mixed feelings. They were glad to be alive, but there was regret for those left behind.

And so, here were Australia and New Zealand now. They were with the last of the troops, the ones left behind. 

Germany was slaughtering, slaughtering, slaughtering everyone that disobeyed. New Zealand and Australia hid, hid, hid. The natives helped them with hiding, and they took part in resistance fighting. Some of his troops were imprisoned. Some of them went missing. Most of them were no longer able to fight. Injured, they were injured. Without legs, without arms, without fingers. 

Were they able to get back home? Or was he going to hide with New Zealand forever? 

They hid and ran and hid and ran. Together, at least. But hiding and running was tiring, tiring, tiring. 

New Zealand looked dreadfully tired. 

For some reason, Australia wasn’t bothered by that. 

(What a fat lie.)


	3. Start

pt 3.

Against all odds, they did get home. Their victory, their return—it had been celebrated to hell and back. The Axis had finally calmed down, had finally surrendered. 

Another unwanted badge was added to his collection.

The world finally saw peace in a long time. Although the aftermath of war was terrible and it took a long time to recover—the world was gentler, the world was wiser. And it’d continue to be, for years to come.

Well, that was what Australia hoped. That was what Australia wanted.

For the next few years, countries flourished all over the world. Cultures developed and new food was made and they were at peace--apart from a select few. Well, terrible things still existed, still occurred, but at least it wasn’t as bad as the world wars. It wasn’t senseless slaughter and there was no need for weapons created to destroy, destroy, destroy. This was ‘peace,’ for now, at least.

He saw New Zealand every 4 years, he saw New Zealand for trade, he saw him often. It wasn’t so bad. 

Since when did he begin to hate New Zealand less?

Usually, just thinking, saying, hearing the name made his stomach churn and he wanted to throw up. Because everything about ‘New Zealand’ was strange. Everything about ‘New Zealand’ told him to run. But that wasn’t really the case. The outside, the world didn’t--wouldn’t accept what he really felt. 

Because it was wrong.  
Because it wasn’t right.  
Because it didn’t fit well with anyone else.

No one admitted to it, no one believed in it, they all just shunned it out and thought of it as abnormal. Which is why he shunned it out too. He told himself what he felt was fake. Was wrong. Was anything but seen as normal.

But one by one, countries began seeing it as something to be accepted. And soon it was legalised, in those countries, one by one. New Zealand was the 13th one to do the same. 

For once, Australia decided to be honest with himself. He sat down and thought, long and hard. What was the feeling he felt that told him to run? The generic fight or flight response wasn’t as simple as that. And what was with the contradictions that ran through his head? His thoughts?

Again and again, he thought long and hard about it.   
In all honesty, Australia was just a huge pussy that couldn’t come to terms with how he felt.

\---

9 December 2017, Australia decided he would finally accept it. For himself, for his nation. Because there was nothing wrong with it. Love was love, regardless of gender. Maybe people would look down on it. Maybe he’d be looked down on for it. But at this point in time, it felt great for him to get it off his chest.

Finally, he could admit it to himself. It took a while. More than a hundred years had passed, but this was it--he finally could accept it. 

He could finally accept he was in love with New Zealand.

Although, Australia probably couldn’t bring himself to say that for real--it was, at least, a start.


End file.
